The Last Goddamn Cripple
By Casey Sabine
i walk down the cobbled streets
cane thud-thud-thud-ing
with every other step.
it’s a beautiful thing,
ebony wood
with a handle carved from marble.
heavy.
grounding.
thudding.
it’s gorgeous,
so when they stare
i can tell myself
it’s in awe—
not confusion
or disgust
it’s heavy
so i can tell myself
that it doubles as a weapon—
if they ask me about the surgery
i can take out their knees.
but still,
my cane catches a stone wrong,
slips out from under me,
knees buckling with sudden weight,
ankle twisting,
and my hip making its sickening pop
but i manage not to scrape anything up
and for just a moment,
while i’m splayed prone on the road,
i wonder
why haven’t i
had that surgery?
it’s more of a transplant,
(which i suppose is a surgery of sorts)
of the consciousness
into a brand new body.
a fixed body, a right body,
a body as it should be
not like this,
broken, ruined, fragile thing.
but why would this body,
the one i was born in,
the one i grew up in,
not be a body as it should be?
if this was not mine, was not made for me,
then why is it here in the first place?
why am i here in the first place?
and as i lift my body back off the stones,
hoisting my aching self upright,
people staring
(again)
and whispering
(again)
i think that the surgery is more than
just a transplant.
it would cut away a piece of me,
a part of my life, my history, my identity—
and my cane.
my beautiful,
lovely,
hand-carved,
ebony-and-marble
cane.
and for what?
your comfort?
if i’m the last goddamn cripple alive,
that’s fine.
but i’ll never have that fucking surgery.
Casey Sabine (he/they) is a multiply disabled queer/trans writer who explores the world we live within through the lens of those we do not. They use science fiction, fantasy, and sometimes a blend of the two to explore the unique love, happiness, and grief they experience through their marginalized identities.